


Quiet Nights Poured Over Ice

by starrywrite



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, dw it's not as serious as it sounds!! haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrywrite/pseuds/starrywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is a mess, and Dan comforts him with a bottle of Tanqueray. </p><p>“But then again, maybe bad things happen because it’s the only way we can keep remembering what good is supposed to look like.” ― Jodi Picoult, <i>Nineteen Minutes</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Nights Poured Over Ice

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! remember me its been a minute since i posted a phanfic sry about that!!! the pbb has taken over my life tbh and i haven't had much time to focus on anything other than my two pbb fics (that are coming along swimmingly, if i do say so myself B) and i cannot waIT for yall to read them!!). until then, however, he's something i whipped together real quick!! inspired by some irl events (my irl not phan’s irl). 
> 
> tw for minor character death before the start of the fic, mentions of death, and alcohol/drinking.
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

Phil is only twenty-eight years old. His younger friends often make fun of his age, reminding him that he’s getting closer and closer to thirty as if that’s something that he should be concerned about. Getting old happens to everyone, Phil is no exception. And if he’s being honest, year he’s almost thirty but he doesn’t _feel_ like he’s that old. He still feels young - sometimes he feels like he’s _too_ young for some of the things he has to do. Too young to know just how taxes actually work, too young to understand fax machines, too young for the nine to five job he doesn’t have, far too young to die. 

Yeah, twenty-eight is definitely too young to die. 

* * *

His head feels foggy and he has to read the same sentence about three times before it actually processes in his mind what he’s read, and his hands fumble for his phone, scrolling through his contacts in search of one of the only high school friends he even keeps in contact with nowadays. His thumb hovers over her name, contemplating texting her at all, but ultimately decides to. 

A classmate of his has passed away, he finds out through Facebook. He sees status after status expressing their grief and condolences, _R.I.P._ popping up more times than he can count. It isn’t as though Phil expected to be personally notified of the instance, he and this person weren’t even friends in all honesty, but finding out someone you knew has died through a Facebook status update leaves a weird taste in his mouth. And for some reason, Phil just can’t believe it. Maybe because it’s someone he knows. Maybe because it’s someone he sort of, kind of grew up with. Maybe it’s because it’s someone his age who was so full of life one minutes and is now resting away in a permanent slumber. Maybe because twenty-eight is just too young to die. 

His old friend fills him in on the details, their text tone completely somber and Phil can’t find the words to say as he reads her messages, thinking about the loss of someone he once saw on a damn near daily basis. She wasn’t entirely great friends with him either, but Phil remembers she had a few classes with him. He wonders if she’s okay, if she’s sad. He wonders if she doesn’t care at all. He wonders if she feels the way he does.

He’s confused. He feels a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of someone he once knew now gone in such a terrible way. He feels _weird_. He feels sad, but not sad enough which is making him feel guilty. He feels sorrow for his family, for the people who have now lost a son, a brother. He feels despair for the people who actually _were_ his friends, the people who are probably crying their eyes out at the loss of someone they loved so much. 

Phil doesn’t want to cry, but part of him feels like maybe he should. Guilt makes a nice comeback as soon as despair takes a hike.

* * *

Dan isn’t home, so Phil texts him next and tells him what happened, even though Dan has no clue who this person even is. Truth be told, Phil hardly feels like he knows who this person is; he went to school with him for four years, maybe he even had a class or two with him - he doesn’t remember. But still, Phil texts him because whenever he’s feeling even the vaguest bit of distress, he always wants to talk to Dan. Even if they don’t talk about it at all. 

He surprises Phil by calling him a minute or two after he’s sent his initial messages (he’s feeling so scatterbrained that he had to send Dan three messages just to get his point across). _“Hey,”_ he sounds out of breath, like he just rushed out of the shops in order to cal him. Dan does that; he hates making phone calls while shopping even more - something about his attention span not strong enough to juggle two tasks. _“Are you alright?”_

“Dunno,” Phil says. He’s certainly a lot more alright than Dan probably thinks he,is. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not as though Phil needs to be consoled right now; he’s perfectly fine and functioning. “I feel a bit weird, I guess.”

 _“Weird how?”_ Dan asks. 

“Just,” Phil sighs a little at not being able to explain his feelings in a coherent way. “Weird,” is all he says. 

_“Okay,”_ Dan says slowly. Phil can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say next, and he feels bad for stressing Dan out like this. _“D’you want to talk about it?”_

“There’s,” Phil sighs again. “There’s nothing to really talk about.” He falls silent for a moment. “He was my age, you know,” he all but whispers and he isn’t sure if he’s talking to Dan or himself. “Maybe a year younger, maybe a little bit older. But he was about my age. He was young, not really young, but young. Too young.”

 _“Yeah,”_ Dan agrees. _“I’m sorry,”_ he says when Phil doesn’t speak up again. Phil isn’t sure why he’s apologizing but he knows that’s just the thing you do when you find out someone lost someone. 

“It’s okay,” is all Phil mumbles. He still has Facebook open in another tab, and he sifts through the status updates one more time. He considers making one of his own, or maybe tweeting something, but he decides against it altogether. He just doesn’t feel right about it for some reason. Maybe because he knows that the two of them barely even know each other - Phil wonders if he even knew his name. The two of them were just two fish in the same pond, sometimes they crossed paths, most of the time they didn’t. 

He still feels a bit sad though. Sad that he’s gone. Not sad enough to tweet about it. Guilt settles in the pit of his stomach and makes itself comfortable. 

* * *

Twenty-eight is not so young the more Phil thinks about it. It’s so close to thirty, and much closer to fifty than twenty is. Nearly three decades of his life has already passed. People his age are settling down, getting married and having kids - or at least adopting dogs. And he’s so much wiser than he was when he was eighteen; it’s pretentious as hell, but it’s the truth. He knows so much more now than he did then. He lives on his own, in the _city_ nonetheless. He has a stable job, a steady income. He’s living comfortably. He has several houseplants. 

Maybe Phil isn’t as young as he thought he was. 

Still too young to die. 

* * *

Dan comes home with a bottle of Tanqueray. Neither of them drink that so Phil isn’t sure why out of all the liquors at hand, he chose that one, but he knows why Dan got it and he appreciates the sentiment. 

Phil has been holed up in the office for hours now; the sun has set and he hasn’t even gotten up to turn the light on, the only source of light coming from his computer. Dan flicks the switch upon entering the room and Phil winces at how bright it is. “How are you doing?” Dan asks, walking over to him. He sets two glasses down on top of the desk and starts pouring. 

“Alright,” Phil replies. He loathes that word. He wishes he could think of something better to say that _alright_. He wishes he felt something other than _alright_. “What’s the occasion?” he asks, knowing all too well why Dan has come home with drinks for two.

Dan shrugs, handing Phil a glass. “To life,” he says, raising his own. 

Phil mimics him, raising his glass and toasting it to Dan’s. “To life,” he whispers. He feels a lump form in his throat but he drowns it with a long gulp of Tanqueray. He doesn’t have to talk about his feelings with a mouth full of alcohol. 

* * *

Tanqueray tastes awful, but Phil has about three glasses of it and he’s got a nice buzz going now. They’ve relocated to Phil’s bedroom, and Dan cuddles up to him in bed, their sock clad feet touching. One of Dan’s hands are on his stomach, his hair tickling the side of his face. Their bodies curved together, fitting next to each other perfectly. Phil likes this; he likes feeling Dan’s touch, he likes having that reminder that he’s _here_ and that he isn’t going anywhere and that everything is _okay_ even when he feels like it isn't. 

“Did you know,” Dan slurs his words a little. He’s had a bit more to drink that Phil has, but Phil is working on catching up to him. “That I love you?” he lifts his head from where it was resting on Phil’s shoulder and he looks up at him, a wide dopey smile on his face. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Phil says, and he kisses him. Dan tastes like Tanqueray and home. 

* * *

An hour later, they’re still drinking and Phil finds his old yearbook. Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts turning the pages, sifting through the array of awkwardly posed black and white school photos. He stops after a couple of pages, eyes skimming over the last names, and he stops to look at his fallen classmate’s school photo. Phil can’t deny that he looks incredibly handsome in his picture, but even more important than that, he’s smiling. He’s smiling wide, even his eyes are smiling. He just looks so _happy_. Phil hopes that, wherever he is now, that he’s happy again. 

“Was that him?” Dan asks, looking over his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Phil says quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” Dan says but Phil almost can’t hear him over the racket in his mind, thoughts of death and funerals and black clothes and tears all clashing together one after the other. He starts thinking about his classmate’s funeral, and how many people will attend, and what they’ll say. He’s sure that no one will know what to say about a twenty-eight year old who died, but he hopes they’ll find a way to pay tribute to his life, even if it was a short one. 

He absentmindedly feels Dan’s lips press to his cheek, then his jaw, then the brunet gently eases the yearbook out of his hands, replacing the old memories with the feel of Dan’s waist. And suddenly, his mind is blank and everything stops. 

* * *

Phil doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up in his underwear and with Dan pressed against him. He sleeps soundly, his head nestled against the crook of Phil’s neck, and the slightest smile on his face. He’s lying on Phil’s arm, but he doesn’t mind. Instead, he just gently situates the two of them so his arm isn’t numb and tingling by the time he wakes up in the morning, and he continues to hold Dan close. He kisses his hair and breathes him in deeply. 

For the first time in hours, he isn’t thinking about death but instead he’s thinking about life - life with Dan, to be specific. He thinks of their memories together, everything they’ve done and everything they’ve accomplies. He thinks about how everyday spent with Dan is better than the one before, and each day with Dan is always a little bit more brighter than the last. His life in total has been a rather nice one, he certainly can’t complain about the past twenty-eight years whatsoever, but his life with Dan has certainly been the highlight reel for numerous reasons. 

He kisses Dan’s hair again, and in the back of his mind, he hears Dan voice toasting their night again - _”to life,”_ \- and he smiles. A life with Dan is certainly a life worth toasting to. 

* * *

The next morning, Phil wakes up with a hangover and an email, inviting him to his class reunion. “Maybe they’ll have Tanqueray,” Dan jokes as Phil RSVPs to the event.

He groans, “Don’t even say that word,” he grumbles, his head throbbing as the harsh light from his cell phone practically blinds him. He hopes he typed up a coherent response. Maybe he should’ve put his glasses on. 

Dan kisses the back of his neck. “I’ll make you some coffee,” he tells him and untangles himself from Phil’s sheets. Phil can feel a shift in the mattress as Dan gets up and starts across the room in nothing but his underwear and a mismatched pair of socks, and Phil reaches for him, stopping him before he can leave. 

“Hey,” he smiles at him. “Thank you for last night.” 

Dan’s cheeks flush a little but he grins and brings Phil’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles before saying, “Don’t mention it.” But Phil _has_ to mention it, because time after time Dan is there for him, always trying to make sure that he’s okay, and last night was no exception. After all these years, Phil shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that Dan cares so much about him - and he isn’t, but the gentle reminder that he’s loved, that he’s so, so loved, is all he needs to chase the bad things away. 

Phil can’t thank him enough for that.


End file.
